This is a Good Beginning
by MynaPyrrhuloxia
Summary: "I gave you hope that became a disappointment." A series of one shot drabbles about the characters, history, and observations.
1. Foreign

Characters: Denmark, Norway  
>Pairings: DenNor<br>Genre: Characterization practice  
>Rating: PG<br>Summary: Norway comforts Denmark

* * *

><p><strong>Foreign<strong>

Norway kisses Denmark's neck, a quick peck, collapsing against Denmark's back and shoulders, creeping over his side as his ghostly hands find their places on his lover's chest. Denmark stares at the ground, at the shattered pieces of a porcelain mug, devoid of liquid, empty. He doesn't recognize Norway's touch, which is strange. He isn't melting in pleasure that Norway is giving—hard earned affection, a taste that his efforts aren't fruitless and his pursuit of love isn't hopeless. Norway knows that something is wrong, so he kisses him again on the neck, then on the cheek, cupping his hands on the sides of Denmark's defined face, the rough touch of stubble underneath his fingertips.

"Dear, what's wrong," he asks, the words immediately feeling foreign and wrong on his tongue. He is not supposed to say those words—they contradict everything that he is and that he chooses to be.

And yet Denmark doesn't reply, he only breathes and focuses on the broken parts.

Norway shifts and pushes him backwards, sinking his lips into Denmark's slowly, then he quickens the pace, biting and nipping his lip to tease out a response, using his tongue as a clever tool to show that he really means it, that he's really concerned, and that he really does care.

Norway knows that he has him when he feels Denmark's tongue against his own, and he smiles, knowing that he's got his attention, that he's lured him in. Denmark is so deprived of affection that the moment he's on the receiving end he's moldable and desperate for more. He lets Norway continue to perform his lip games, and he shudders as Norway's hands slip underneath his shirt and explore.

"I'm not mad at you," Norway says, breaking off but hovering close. He retreats farther as Denmark tries to capture him again. "I'm not mad at you for breaking the glass, if that's what's wrong."

"'s not it."

"Tell me."

"I'm just sad, Norway. It happens sometimes."

"Don't be. I'm here."

Denmark sits up. He knows he's not going to get anything more out of the exchange unless he plays along. This time, it's Norway who cradles him in his arms, becoming the supporter, and brushing the back of his neck with soft kisses while he talks. He's never sure why Denmark is sad, but he has a low day every once in a while.

Norway has his low months.

But Norway knows that it's bad when Denmark starts crying, weakened and tired of hiding it. Norway grips him tight, and he cries a little too, sympathetic and releases his own inner pain. They cling to one another until the tears stop.

"Say it," Denmark says, sniffling as Norway wipes the raindrops off his face.

"I love you," Norway says, and the words still feel foreign, but not as wrong.


	2. February

Characters: The Netherlands, Denmark, mentions of Norway, Spain, Belgium  
>Pairings: One-sided NetherlandsDenmark, hinted DenNor  
>Genre: Characterization practice, history fic<br>Rating: PG-13  
>Summary: Netherlands wakes up and reminisces<p>

* * *

><p><strong>February<strong>

Netherlands wakes up in the morning alone, like always, in his cramped apartment, magazines scattered all over the floor along with junk mail. His thin sheets are bunched together and the crack of morning light upsets his eyes, so he groans and rolls over before sitting up, blinking.

_He doesn't always sleep alone. Sometimes people stay over for nostalgia. Belgium visits him on occasion, but he never sleeps with her—he takes the couch when she comes over. Spain speaks to him more now that history has washed away some of the ill between them, and they hang out whenever he has an excuse to be in Amsterdam for the weekend. They sleep together, even if it's cramped, but they keep to themselves._

He stares at the wall for a minute, running his fingers through his sandy hair, flat against his scalp and bangs in his eyes. He yawns and moves his feet to the edge of the bed, but doesn't stand. His pajama pants are blue and have cows on them. He got them as a Christmas gift from Denmark.

_The only person who visits him frequently is Denmark. He arrives, unannounced and at random, on his doorstep. Sometimes he's completely hammered, drunk out of his mind, half-coherent and drooling. Sometimes he's happy, practically kicking the door down with his boots and flopping on the couch as if he owns the place, jabbering about foreign wars and drama amongst his friends. Netherlands just listens._

He finds the Nijntje stuffed doll he bought years ago and hugs it to his chest. He's too old for stuffed animals, he says, but he still likes keeping that one with him. It feels good. He sighs.

_But sometimes, in the middle of the night, he barely hears the knocking, and by the absence of a smile, Netherlands knows that something is wrong. Denmark comes to him with his problems. He cries sometimes, and Netherlands doesn't really know what to do. As annoying as Denmark can be, he's a good, kind friend. So he pats his shoulder, hugs him awkwardly, and speaks very few but carefully placed words. _

He checks his phone, placed by his bedside, and has one text message. It's from Denmark, and he remembers that they're hanging out today. Shit, he thinks, and he drags himself out of bed to eat breakfast—a piece of toast with jam—and jumps into the shower. It's only then that he realizes that he has a headache.

_When Denmark stays over, they share the bed, except Denmark curls up against him and holds him tight. Netherlands doesn't find this strange—they've been doing this ever since they were young teenagers, and Denmark's obsession with closeness hadn't changed—so he just accepts it. Denmark radiates warmth—particularly useful in the wintertime—and Netherlands likes closeness occasionally. They talk about their secrets, sometimes._

He figures it's because he drank a little too much last night, the headache, so after stepping out of the shower and putting his hair up, he takes a mild painkiller. He gets dressed and lies back down in bed again, closing his eyes, waiting for Denmark to call him.

_"You know, I think I love you," Denmark sometimes says when things are bad with Norway and he's crying, "I've considered it before. I have feelings for you."_

_"I know," Netherlands replies," But it can't happen."_

_"Why not?" Denmark collapses, worn out from sadness and frustration, "It could work."_

_"You never marry your best friend," Netherlands tells him, and he digs through his drawer for the good kind of drugs, to help both of them escape from the world for just a little while._

Denmark calls him. He's gotten off the bus and will wait for him by their usual meeting place so they can go out for a late lunch. Netherlands slept in late and Denmark had to travel. Neither of which is a big deal.

Even as day turns into night and they see a movie, Netherlands' headache doesn't go away.

It's getting worse.

* * *

><p>Referencing Dutch government collapse in February of 2010 (the headache is due to the events leading up to the collapse).<p>

Originally intended to be longer, but I didn't like how the rest of it turned out. Also originally written with human names too, but changed to country names for the sake of ease, even though the writing doesn't flow as well as it did before.


	3. My brother, his lover, and me

Characters: Iceland, Norway, Denmark  
>Pairings: Hinted DenNor<br>Genre: Poetry, first person  
>Rating: PG<br>Summary: Iceland's point of view on Denmark and Norway's relationship

* * *

><p><span>My brother, his lover, and me<span>

He, damp with snow and his own tears,

Runs out into the wilderness and seeks repentance

For all of the words that burst from his body in

A desperate attempt to escape.

Night hides his lost grace, shivering within an empty tree

Scared for his life, my brother wishes he could just have a glass of liquid

Sunshine, hoping that he'd rid his body

Of regret by ingesting happiness,

Ninety-nine cents a pop.

.

Every decibel they spoke to one another

Remains lost, only an echo in space.

.

Me, I sit and watch him through warped glass

In silence,

Going nowhere, itchy woolen socks on my toes.


	4. Animals

Characters: Denmark, Norway, Iceland  
>Pairings: DenNor<br>Genre: Silly, characterization practice  
>Rating: PG<br>Summary: Iceland plays video games and gets trolled.

* * *

><p><strong>Animals<strong>

Iceland sits cross-legged in front of his TV screen, gingerly chewing on piece of hard candy and hunched over, game controller in his hand. On the couch, he can hear his brother humming along with the simple tunes radiating from the speakers, but he isn't watching. Instead, he's reading, trying not to nod off to sleep.

Iceland smiles as he catches a rare fish and has his character run to the museum to give it to the curator. He mashes through layer after layer of text, and then decides he should go check if one of his town-mates is in their house.

"Whatcha playin'?" Denmark asks, a bowl of popcorn in his hand, stuffing large handfuls into his mouth and sending stray pieces to the floor.

"Leave me alone, I need to concentrate."

"You're just talkin' to some person."

"Animal Crossing."

"Eh?"

"I'm playing Animal Crossing," Iceland rolls his eyes, shifting the candy over to the other side of his mouth. "Aren't you supposed to be working?"

"I finished. Figured I'd see what you guys are doin'," Denmark states, peering over the couch at Norway. "Hi, Nor," he says sweetly, kissing him on the lips.

"You need to brush your teeth," Norway says, scowling and rolling over onto his stomach. "Or a breath mint."

"Iceland?" Denmark smiles, turning towards him expectedly. But Iceland has his back turned, and is grumbling about turnip prices.

"Iceland," the elder brother sighs, "Give Den a breath mint."

"Give me a second, I'm talking to Tom Nook."

"Now."

Iceland reaches into his pocket, turns around, and throws the mint container with all his might at Denmark. "There, happy?" he snaps before turning back to his game. He walks over to the corner and decides to try on a shirt he thinks looks cool after buying a boatload of turnips at a cheap price. He can sell these so much higher and finally pay off his entire house. He grins.

"… Ice, are you a girl?"

"Of course he isn't, Denmark. You've seen him naked before."

"No, not him! I mean his character."

Norway stares at the screen, eyes narrowing. "Oh," he says.

"So what if I'm a girl character? Iceland gestures with one hand, "I think they look better than the guy model anyway. And aren't you a girl in pokemon, Denmark?"

"No, that's me," Norway sighs. "Denmark is a boy, but he has a girl name."

"Are you making fun of Nancy?" Denmark gasps, suddenly angry, "I swear his Rapidash will own your ass the next time we battle."

"I have a Lapras."

"Would you two be quiet? I'm trying to catch this butterfly, and it's really hard!"

Denmark pops a breath mint in his mouth and kisses Norway again. This time, Norway reciprocates the gesture. This goes on for some time, before Iceland interrupts.

"Stop making out behind me, it's weird."

Norway breaks off. "I'm reading," he says before carrying on.

"You're not reading. I don't hear pages turning."

Norway starts rapidly turning pages with one hand.

"You're terrible, stop it. You're just trolling me."

Norway breaks off again. "I'm reading."

"DAMNIT NOR, YOU ARE NOT READING," Iceland waves the controller in the air, still refusing to turn back around, "YOU'RE NOT MAKING READING NOISES, YOU'RE MAKING MAKING OUT NOISES."

"I'm reading."

"Yep, he's readin'!" Denmark adds.

Iceland sighs angrily and button mashes. "Look at you. You made me walk onto a pitfall. You both suck."


	5. Transcript

Characters: Iceland, Snorri Sturluson (historical figure)  
>Pairings: None<br>Genre: Characterization practice, history fic  
>Rating: G<br>Summary: Sturluson used Iceland to record history. Iceland moves forward and continues to sing poetry.

* * *

><p><strong>Transcript<strong>

I.

He sits in an old rocking chair and poetry flows from his mouth like a waterfall, words gushing, each syllable carefully sounded out. He doesn't know where the rhymes and tune comes from, but he is conducted to sing, so he does, slowly, so that the man sitting across from him can transcribe his words onto paper, with inky quill and quick wrist. Sometimes he's asked to rewind, going over the same part of the story over and over. The man asks him questions, but he shrugs. He can't tell him what each name means, he doesn't know whether the Gods were once men. The idea seems preposterous to him anyway. But he was told once by someone wise that just because something seems silly doesn't make it possible.

II.

He sits in an old rocking chair and reads the poetry he once spoke. Corrupted and changed, the message obscured and covered up by translation and time, he is angered. He wishes he could write with inky quill and quick wrist, crossing out sections of wrong interpretation and fixing them with the true words. If Sturluson wanted the correct history, all he had to have done was ask. But he remembers he was young, and his mind not yet clear of all the follies of childhood. Ah, but how grand if would be if he could rewind his internal tape, and re-write the Edda, the way it should've been.

But no matter how much he wished, they would chant Sturluson's name in glory, never his.

III.

He takes the old rocking chair and asks if the museum wants it. He has no use for it, and it is no longer fit for sitting in.

They take it, and part of him is sad to see it go.

IV.

He runs through the fields in the summer, white and soft cotton brushing his unprotected legs, bobbing in the wind like buoys on the sea, and poetry escapes from his lips. Shouting, throwing out his arms to the sky, the hero dies in vain, crumpling to the ground dramatically, and he lets himself fall too, flattening the plants behind him. The hills and mountains only continue from where he lays, and he does not know what warped bones of ancient monsters lay in the hills, if any do it all. He wishes someone would take notice of him, but for all his life all he had ever been was a ghost in the backgrounds of history, not even gracing a footnote for his contributions. But he supposed the fact that he still existed and that he remembers all of his good doings is payment enough.

V.

Jóhannes, bathed in sunlight, jumps into puddles, with yellow rain boots, waiting for the day that he's asked to spit up ancient words again.

* * *

><p>Snorri Sturluson is a famous Icelandic historian that wrote the Poetic Edda, recording many Viking age mythslegends.

Jóhannes is my name for Iceland.


	6. Thirds

Characters: Iceland (Jóhannes), Norway (Halvard)  
>Pairings: NorIce<br>Genre: Style practice, written as a gift  
>Rating: PG-13<br>Summary: This is how things change.

* * *

><p><strong>Thirds<strong>

Jóhannes and Halvard intertwine their fingers with ribbon, pink as the youth on their cheeks. Tying their fates across paths that were only supposed to run parallel, they crash land into the ground out of heaven, grass stains on their clothes. They eat sky-colored berries on the fence post, on the stone walls built to keep enemies out. The world is blissful, even as Jóhannes trips and brings Halvard down with him, the ribbon stronger than they thought. Everything is good with their minds completely tabula rasa. But even before they were taught to grip charcoal and write tri-lettered syllables, they, with their own bodies, began to fill their slates with words. With action, with thought, with emotion, with symbolic thinking so abstract that the blankness of their white, untouched flesh was overwhelmed by colors that didn't even exist yet.

The sky is cloudless.

...

Jóhannes and Halvard intertwine their fingers with blood. Death crunches underneath Halvard's careful steps, guiding Jóhannes slowly, and with a solemn look, he tells his brother that no matter what happens, not to look down. And he obeys, staring upwards at the falling ash and ravens, blindfolded and unknowing of the putrefaction underneath his soft-soled feet. But he can feel the fresh blood on his brother's palms, mixing with his own torn hands, and despite how painful it is, he squeezes tighter. The sound of the birds frightens him, their harsh cackling like that of a witch. Jóhannes was afraid that if he saw what lay beneath his feet, he'd be eaten by one of those witches. He blindly allows himself to be lead through the battlefield, unknowing that he was walking in Death's domain, gravestones arising after each footprint he leaves in this forsaken place.

The sky is blotted with clouds and flecks of black.

...

Jóhannes and Halvard intertwine their fingers with sweat, with deep kisses and slight touch, not even allowing darkness to fill the cracks between them. Halvard bites out of habit, a nip and nothing more, but Jóhannes shrinks back and huddles under the covers, cheeks pink with something that was far from the pinkness of his youth. Halvard laughs and pulls him back down, body against body, hipbones digging deep into each other's flesh. The smell of Halvard's cologne is intoxicating like the strongest of wines, rich and deep with taste, and Jóhannes lets it wash over him, becoming blank and bleached like the bones of a sundried fish. His conscious slips away, becoming nothing more than a ghost, and he takes one last gasp of clean air before going under.

The sky is dark with rain and no moon.


	7. Just Things

Characters: Iceland, Norway, Denmark, The Netherlands, England, Austria, Sweden, Finland  
>Pairings: NedDen if you squint<br>Genre: Various, mostly humor  
>Rating: G<br>Summary: Short little lines about various characters, situations, etc.

* * *

><p>Just Things<p>

Iceland sucks on peppermint candy to prevent himself from biting the insides of his cheeks, a bad habit that arose out his time with starvation. He would always remember the Mist Hardships with distain and spite, the name curling under his own tongue.

...

When Eyjafjallajökull erupted, the only thing Iceland did was laugh at the canceled flights.

He laughed even harder when nobody on foreign television could say it.

...

"The reason why your eyes are purple," Norway said, sitting across the table from him, "Is because when you were young, an ash cloud blinded you, just like the sheep after Grímsvötn. It's just, because you're a nation, you didn't go permanently blind."

"That's a lie," Iceland replies, but he doesn't berate his brother anymore because he fears there might actually be truth to what he was saying.

...

Denmark tries to paint, but more paint ends up on himself instead of the canvas. The Netherlands smiles, pokes him on the nose, and says that he's art anyway before going back to his own painting of tulips.

...

Iceland plays Minecraft, builds wooden house with "England" carved into it, and gleefully watches it burn down.

Later that day, he does it all over again.

...

Austria and Norway get stuck in an elevator and spend five hours in complete and utter silence.

...

Sweden flies into Denmark's house, rage in his eyes, and violently shakes Denmark after discovering that Denmark thought it would be funny to pierce Sealand's ears and put in giant bling studs.

Much to Sweden's dismay, Sealand refuses to take them out.

...

Finland goes out into the woods in the dead of winter and practices sharpshooting, just because he knows that war can erupt at any moment, even in the silence of peace.

* * *

><p>Notes:<p>

~The Mist Hardships (Móðuharðindin) were the result of the volcano Laki erupting, causing widespread famine across Iceland. In the end, about 1/5 of the population of Iceland died, as well as 80% of the livestock

~The Eyjafjallajökull eruption in question occurred in 2010, causing widespread cancellation of flights across Europe. Nobody in the non-Icelandic speaking media could pronounce it correctly, much to the amusement of Icelanders.

~The Grímsvötn eruption occurred within the past few weeks. As with a lot of volcano eruptions, the ash caused some livestock that lived near the volcano to become blind.

~Iceland and England are not on the best of terms because of the financial crisis in Iceland and many English investors losing money when the banks failed.


	8. Just Things Part Two

Characters: Iceland (Jóhannes), Estonia, Romania (Nicolae), America, Denmark (Henrik), Norway (Halle), Latvia, Lithuania.  
>Pairings: None<br>Genre: Various, mostly humor  
>Rating: PG-13 for Iceland's language<br>Summary: Short little lines about various characters, situations, etc. Non-linear continuation of Just Things.

* * *

><p>Just Things Part 2<p>

Jóhannes spends the whole day outside and runs into Jónsi, Björk, and Jón Gnarr within an hour of one another, and since he's met them all before, he greets them as old friends.

...

When Eduard was first exposed to an automatic garage door opener, he could hardly contain his excitement and spent an hour just opening, closing, and generally playing with the system.

To this day, it remains one of his favorite things.

...

Nicolae is always angered when people equate him to Nicolae Ceaușescu. The only thing that he sees they share is their first names and sense of twistedness.

"At the very least, I'm better looking than he was," he frowns, and stretches like a cat across the sofa.

...

Eduard forgets he set an alarm on his phone and ends up scaring the shit out of himself, jumping up in surprise and letting out a small yelp.

He's glad that nobody was around to see him do that, but then he remembers he is on skype call with Jóhannes, who is openly laughing at him through the speakers.

It's the first time Jóhannes has laughed all week.

...

Alfred hid in the broom closet, since Henrik wouldn't stop talking to him. And Alfred couldn't understand if it was a cultural barrier or Henrik's denseness, but Henrik could not read the fact that Alfred didn't want to listen to him blab on about trivial things like the exact hue of each rubber duck in his house or how the inside of his mouth tasted right now.

"Wait, come back," he heard Henrik say from outside the door, "I'm not done talking to you yet! I gotta tell you about now I broke my arm three times in one day!"

Alfred groaned, trapped indefinitely, and flipped his phone open and sent out a mass text for someone else to save him from Henrik's excessive storytelling.

Eventually, Halle passed by, threw a doughnut across the room (which Henrik of course chased without a moments haste), opened the closet, whispered "You're welcome," and walked away without another word.

...

Once, when Jóhannes was filled with nothing but anger and sadness, instead of taking the bus or walking, he drove his car to the supermarket, bought cookie dough, and sat in his car in the parking lot and just watched people while he ate it, mentally cursing all of them.

He got a weird look from a lady that walked by, and he just give her the finger and a nasty glare, and he felt much better after that.

...

As Eduard watered his plants, small little flowers in tiny, hand painted pots, he hummed to himself. Jóhannes asked him if his plants had any names, and Eduard said no. He had thought about giving them names, but he seemed certain it was not very scientific, and he was terrible at name creativity.

Jóhannes started naming them after Icelandic swears, like pika and helvítis, and it was only until he said "fokk" that Eduard realized what his friend was saying.

Mildly horrified, Eduard declined his help and said he'd name them himself.

"I was just kidding," Jóhannes said, laughing under his breath, and then gave them all suitable names.

...

Henrik though it would be a good idea to make a flying swimming pool.

11,042 Danish kroner in property damage later, he was surprised to find that he was wrong.

...

Eduard avoids saying "twelve months" in Estonian around anyone who doesn't know the language. Instead, he tries to say "year" or some other related phrase, because he dislikes being teased about it.

...

There was this one time Raivis tried to beatbox and Toris laughed so hard he stared choking on his own spit and Eduard had to frantically try and get him to breathe again.

That was the end of Raivis' beatboxing attempts.

...

Nicolae's favorite video on YouTube is "The Count Censored."

He's watched it over a thousand times and still finds it hilarious.

* * *

><p>Notes:<p>

~ Jónsi, Björk, and Jón Gnarr are all famous Icelanders. The first two are well-known musicians, and Jón Gnarr is comedian who elected mayor of Reykjavik after his "Best Party" joke turned into a real political campaign for change in Iceland. If you YouTube "Besti Flokkurinn" (Best Party in Icelandic) and watch their campaign video, you will not be disappointed. If you're looking for unique but good music, Jónsi and Björk are also worth checking out.

~ All of my Hetalia friends are really the ones who name the unnamed characters for me. I have some input, but I really let them decide, and Nicolae was the name they came up for Romania. I instantly thought of Nicolae Ceaușescu, the last head of Communist Romania before the Iron Curtain fell.

~ The America/Denmark drabble is actually based on the conversations I've had with my friend who cosplays America (usacoffeemug on tumblr /where-is-patches on DA. She's an amazing cosplayer, you should check her out!).

~ Pika is an Icelandic slang for female genitals (closest translation would be "pussy"), helvítis is Hell, and fokk is well... fuck.

~ "Twelve months" in Estonian is "Kaksteist kuud." If you haven't noticed already, that sounds nearly exactly to "Cocks taste good" if you say it.


	9. Red and White

Characters: Romania (Nicolae), Hungary  
>Pairings: None intended, but RomaniaHungary if you squint I guess  
>Genre: Drabble, requested by jceland<br>Rating: G  
>Summary: They meet briefly for the first time in ages <p>

* * *

><p>Elizaveta greets him at his doorstep in a red winter coat, hands stuffed into her pockets and her mouth covered by a white scarf. He is surprised, but despite not seeing her in years, the color of her hair and the angle of her eyes are both familiar enough for him to feel confident whispering her name.<p>

Her eyebrows narrow at the sound of his voice, but she pulls her scarf down to expose her cheeks, rosy with cold, and she opens her mouth to speak.

"Nicolae," she begins, "Nicolae, I was wrong, and I am sorry."

And Nicolae does not understand what she means. He can only stare at her from the doorway, with snow blowing into his house. No matter how many times they've fought over uncountable pointless things, he cannot think of a single event that she should be sorry for. They, like siblings, fought. But no matter how many times they pulled out one another's hair, they knew that they shared a sense of kindred. All had been forgiven through time. Warfare and hatred were just a part of who they were.

Or so he had thought.

He thought about inviting her inside so she could explain what she meant. But she shook her head before he had the chance to speak, and instead handed him a sealed envelope, addressed to him.

"This, also, I give to you," she added, unwrapping the scarf from around her and placing it around his, smiling. "And this time, we part as friends. Not enemies."

Nicolae is left in confusion with the breeze, watching her turn around until her redness disappears into distance, consumed by white.

The envelope is empty, but he fills in the words himself.


	10. Stones

Characters: Denmark (Henrik), Norway (Halvard)  
>Pairings: DenNor<br>Genre: Fluffy-ish drabble, requested by tokyoradio  
>Rating: G<br>Summary: The two of them meet up and discuss how they will change.

* * *

><p>Halvard wakes up one morning and it dawns on him that he has been an idiot all this time, and he doesn't think about anything besides his own foolishness as he gets dressed for the day, takes a bus down to the docks, and crosses the Skagerrak strait from Norway to Denmark.<p>

Henrik is there waiting for him, and they kiss briefly before Halvard tugs on his hand and asks if they can walk along the shoreline alone. Henrik laughs and nods vigorously, adding that he's always happy to do anything together, and it doesn't matter to him really what they do.

And Halvard only nods in agreement.

Eventually, they find a piece of dry land to sit on, surrounded by small stones, and they skip stones across the surface of the ocean.

_skip skip skip skip_

"I've been an idiot."

_skip skip skip_** thunk.**

"What?"

Halvard picks up another rock and shines it on the cuff of his jacket. "That is what I have been thinking about all morning. I'm the one who is foolish, not you." He throws the small stone into the water and listens to it drop without a single skip.

And when Henrik looks at him with a confused expression, Halvard explains that although he is the elder, even though he has been in the world longer, even though he has bounced between extreme joy and extreme sorrow, he is weighted down, he is hardly enlightened, and his wisdom gets in the way of letting himself behave the way he wants to.

Halvard explains that he's terrified of being perceived as foolish. But it dawned on him, that's something he shouldn't be afraid of. Henrik is his essence in opposite—his other half—someone who identifies with foolishness and isn't afraid of making mistakes. And as haunted as he is by his errors, he has the ability to easily start over and try again.

"And that is something that is hard for me," Halvard adds, "To admit my wrongs."

_skip skip skip skip skip_

"You need to teach me how to let go of that pride."

_skip skip_

"Only if you can teach me something in return."

_skip_** thunk.**

"And what would that be?"

"How to grow up." Henrik smiles, "Just a little."

"You might be beyond help, dear," Halvard chuckles to himself, but he smiles back and promises that he'll do his best.


End file.
